


A Study in Self

by ErikMette



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Episode: s01e01 A Study in Pink, First Meetings, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-03
Updated: 2015-11-03
Packaged: 2018-04-29 19:09:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5139254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ErikMette/pseuds/ErikMette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Study in Pink told with the (hopefully) humorous inner thoughts of Sherlock and John on first meeting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Study in Self

Sherlock looked up from the microscope, stood in the doorway was a short, blonde male, between 35-40 years of age, tanned, using the aid of a cane for an injury the right leg. military from the stance, despite the cane.  
Sherlock saw all of this within the first few seconds of looking up. What terrified him was the feeling from out of nowhere that there was something different about his man, something that might actually take more than a brief look to learn. As sherlock was someone who was used to looking and dismissing someone almost immediately, this new feeling was extremely disconcerting... 

Looking away from the blonde stranger for a moment, he realised Mike Stamford had also entered the room, looking extremely pleased with himself. Considering he had been speaking with Stamford only that morning about the difficulties of finding a flatmate, it didn't take a genius to work out why the blonde man was here.  
“Mike, can I borrow your phone? There’s no signal on mine.”  
“And what’s wrong with the landline?”  
“I prefer to text.”  
“Sorry. It’s in my coat.”  
“Here. Use mine.” offered the stranger  
Taking the phone, sherlock glared briefly at Mike, hoping he’d take the hint. He did.  
“This is an old friend of mine, John Watson.” 

Right, John Watson. Time to show off a little, remaining casual and typing into the phone, Sherlock asked; “Afghanistan or Iraq?” He caught John frowning, good.  
“Sorry?”  
“Which was it – Afghanistan or Iraq?” He briefly raised his eyes to John’s before looking back to the phone.  
“Afghanistan. Sorry, how did you know ...?”  
“How do you feel about the violin?” asked Sherlock, changing topic completely.  
“I’m sorry, what?” replied a now entirely confused John Watson.  
“I play the violin when I’m thinking. Sometimes I don’t talk for days on end.” He looked up from the phone. “Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other.”  
None of this conversation had cleared up in anywhere the confusion that John was feeling, he turned to Mike for some sort of clarification “Oh, you ... you told him about me?”  
“Not a word.” Mike promised.  
John turned back to Sherlock again. “Then who said anything about flatmates?” 

Sherlock picked up his greatcoat and began to put it on. “I did. Told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for. Now here he is just after lunch with an old friend, clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan. Wasn’t that difficult a leap.  
“How did you know about Afghanistan?”  
Sherlock ignored the question, hoping to maintain an air of mystery for a little longer, especially as this john seemed confused but also genuinely interested about how he knew, rather than defensively demanding answers. He wrapped his scarf around his neck and passed the phone back to john.  
“Got my eye on a nice little place in central London. Together we ought to be able to afford it.” He walked towards John. “We’ll meet there tomorrow evening; seven o’clock. Sorry – gotta dash. I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary.” Sherlock walked past John and headed for the door.  
“Is that it?” asked John.  
Sherlock paused in the doorway and turned to face John, “Is that what?”  
“We’ve only just met and we’re gonna go and look at a flat?” said john, more than a hint of disbelief in his voice.  
“Problem?”  
John smiled in disbelief and looked across to Mike for help, but he just smiled, somehow keeping his face impressively blank as though if he didnt he would collapse into a fit of laughter.

“We don’t know a thing about each other; I don’t know where we’re meeting; I don’t even know your name.”  
Sherlock took a moment to compose himself, if he could get this just right, he knew he could secure this john as a flatmate, at the least.  
“I know you’re an Army doctor and you’ve been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you’ve got a brother who’s worried about you but you won’t go to him for help because you don’t approve of him – possibly because he’s an alcoholic; more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. And I know that your therapist thinks your limp’s psychosomatic – quite correctly, I’m afraid.”  
John looked down at his leg and cane and shuffled his feet awkwardly.  
He looked closely at John, christ what was wrong with him, this wasnt like the normal thrill of showing he was smarter than everyone else in the room, he genuinely wanted to impress this john. For him to like him. “That’s enough to be going on with, don’t you think?”  
Sherlock stepped a little more though the door before leaning back into the room again, as though a thought just struck him.  
“The name’s Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street.” he winked at John. “Afternoon.”

Once outside the room and where he couldn’t be easily seen, sherlock rested his head against the wall none too gently. He’d winked, why the fuck had he winked? There was no way in hell John Watson, quite probably hetrosexual John fucking Watson was going to look at anything, let alone a flat, with a man who winked at him.  
Sherlock continued with this train of thought all the way back to Baker street, he’d been here a month now, and the landlady, mrs hudson was being quite understanding regarding the rent. she had a motherly way about her and like mothers often do, could understand the difficulties facing a son when they struggled to play well with others.  
Indeed, it was an inability to play well with others that had led to Sherlock being asked to leave his last place of residence, that and something to do with breach of contract and explosive materials. Sherlock hadn't really been listening. But a month on, even with all the motherly love in the world, Mrs Hudson needed some rent money and if he’d just screwed this up with John Watson, for the sake of a wink, then he wasn't entirely sure what he was going to do. He was damned if he was going to ask his family’s help, he was a grown, functioning adult and if that meant being a homeless grown, fuctioning adult, then so be it.

 

It was 18:30 and Sherlock had rearranged the union jack pillow for the fifth time. The rest of the flat could only be described as organised chaos, but tidy up everything seemed so overwhelming. So sherlock had decided to fixate on the cushion, rearranging it to within an inch of its life. Finally satisfied, he took his coat, scarf and gloves and headed out. He had figured already being at the property and then being the one to open the door might appear just a little too desperate and so planned to walk a little way out, then catch a taxi back to Baker street arriving the same time as John Watson. He was counting on the military nature of the man that he would be neither early nor late. 

At precisely 7pm, John Watson limped along the road and reached the door marked 221B just as a black cab pulled up at the kerb behind him. John knocked on the door as Sherlock got out of the cab. He reached in through the window of the cab and handed some money to the confused looking driver. John turned towards him as he walked over.  
“Ah, Mr Holmes.”  
“Sherlock, please.”  
They shook hands. Sherlock was relieved the firstly john had come and secondly that he seemed pleased with the outside of the building at least.  
“Well, this is a prime spot. Must be expensive.”  
“Oh, Mrs Hudson, the landlady, is giving me a special deal. Owes me a favour. A few years back, her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida. I was able to help out.” stated Sherlock attempting to sound casual.  
“Sorry – you stopped her husband being executed?”  
“Oh no. I ensured it.” grinned Sherlock, in what he thought was good impression of a friendly humorous smile but what john watson had already decided was quite sadistic looking all by itself.  
The front door was opened by Mrs Hudson, small in stature with an apron tied round her waist and in her late 60s if one was impolite enough to guess. She opened her arms to the younger man.  
“Sherlock, hello.”  
Sherlock turned and walked into her arms, hugging her briefly, then stepping back presented John to her. He had explained to her earlier that day that he didn't want to look to desperate for this john watson to move in, mrs hudson had read slightly more into this than Sherlock had realised but she was doing a sterling job of acting surprised at their arrival especially considering he had shouted he was leaving only 20 minutes before.  
“Mrs Hudson, Doctor John Watson.”  
“Hello dear.” gesturing to John. “Please come inside.”  
“Thank you.”  
The two men proceeded inside and Mrs Hudson closed the door. Sherlock trotted up the stairs to the first floor landing, then paused and waited for John to hobble upstairs. Shit, thought sherlock. He should have walked behind John, that limp would have to go, otherwise it was going to become a huge headache for sherlock, trying to be considerate of it all the time.  
As John reaches the top of the stairs, Sherlock opened the door ahead of him and walked in, revealing the living room of the flat. John followed him in and looked around the room and at the many possessions and boxes scattered around it.  
“Well, this could be very nice. Very nice indeed.”  
“Yes, I think so. My thoughts precisely.” He likes it, thought Sherlock. He looked around the flat happily, this might actually work out.  
“Soon as we get all this rubbish cleaned out …” John paused, reading the look that had just passed across Sherlock’s face. This wasn't the last occupants rubbish, this was Sherlock’s possessions. Bugger. Nice one John, he thought to himself.  
“Well, obviously I can, um, straighten things up a bit.” Sherlock walked across the room and made an attempt to tidy up, throwing a couple of folders into a box and then taking some apparently unopened envelopes across to the fireplace where he put them onto the mantelpiece and stabbed a multi tool knife into them.  
John noticed something else on the mantelpiece and lifted his cane to point at it.  
“That’s a skull.”  
“Friend of mine. When I say ‘friend’ …”  
While John took the few moments necessary to process this last sentence and weigh up just how badly he wanted to remain living in London or possibly living in general, Mrs Hudson had entered the room. She picked up a cup and saucer while Sherlock took off his greatcoat and scarf.  
“What do you think, then, Doctor Watson? There’s another bedroom upstairs if you’ll be needing two bedrooms.” she said knowingly.  
“Of course we’ll be needing two.” John replied awkwardly, he was beginning to worry quite what sherlock had told the landlady about their intended living arrangements.  
“Oh, don’t worry dear.” Mrs Hudson continued. “there’s all sorts round here. Mrs Turner next door’s got married ones.”  
John looked across to Sherlock, waiting for him to confirm that he and John are not involved in that way but Sherlock was still busily tidying around himself, none too successfully it appeared.  
Sherlock meanwhile was slowly dying inside, why hadn’t he hid the skull? and now just to top it of Mrs hudson appeared to have an excellent case of verbal diarrhea. He swore to himself if john ran screaming from this place, he wouldn't blame him but god help him, he’d kill Mrs hudson himself.

Mrs Hudson however, completely oblivious to her impending death, walked across to the kitchen, then stopped calling back over her shoulder disapprovingly to Sherlock.  
"Oh, Sherlock. The mess you’ve made."  
She carried on into the kitchen and started the arduous task of tidying up after sherlock, which if he'd had any sense of compassion would have included providing her with a hazmat suit.  
John walked over to one of the two armchairs, plumped up a cushion on the one (the one sherlock had spent ages getting just right, he noted. Great, even the cushion was wrong.) and then dropped heavily down into it. He looked across to Sherlock who was still tidying up a little.  
“I looked you up on the internet last night.”  
Sherlock turned around to him. “Anything interesting?”  
“Found your website, The Science of Deduction.”  
Sherlock began to smile proudly. “What did you think?”  
John gave him a look of complete disbelief. Sherlock looked hurt.  
“You said you could identify a software designer by his tie and an airline pilot by his left thumb.  
“Yes; and I can read your military career in your face and your leg, and your brother’s drinking habits in your mobile phone.” Sherlock replied somewhat defensively. 

“How though?” John asked.  
Sherlock smiled and turned away. Mrs Hudson came out of the kitchen reading the newspaper.  
“What about these suicides then, Sherlock? I thought that’d be right up your street. Three exactly the same.”  
Sherlock walked over to the window of the living room at the sound of a car pulling up outside. He felt a growing excitement inside him. “Four.”  
He looked down at the car as someone got out of it. The police car’s lights were flashing but silent.  
“There’s been a fourth. And there’s something different this time.” Sherlock reiterated, excitement growing.

Sherlock looked towards the hallway as D.I. Lestrade of New Scotland Yard, who must have picked the lock on the front door, trotted up the stairs into the living room.  
Seriously, thought Sherlock you save a person's life once and they think they can break into your property whenever they please.  
“Where?” asked Sherlock.  
“Brixton, Lauriston Gardens.” replied Lestrade.  
“What’s new about this one? You wouldn’t have come to get me if there wasn’t something different.”  
“You know how they never leave notes?” Well. This one did. Will you come?  
The exchange was formal, clipped and ever so slightly stressed on Lestrade’s side.  
“Who’s on forensics?” Please dont be Anderson, please dont be Anderson, thought Sherlock. the stupid git, Sherlock was certain that man couldn't find his own genitals without help, let alone forensic evidence. The genitals thing however was a blessing for the human race as it meant his idiocy had a good chance of dying with him.  
“It’s Anderson.”  
Damn it. “Anderson won’t work with me.”  
“He won’t be your assistant, you mean.” corrected lestrade, who was definitely looking more stressed now than he did when he came in.  
“I need an assistant.” stated sherlock, now verging ever so slightly into whining territory. He caught himself, remember that John Watson was in the room.  
“Will you come though?”  
“Not in a police car. I’ll be right behind.” There was nothing on this earth that would get Sherlock back into a police car.  
“Thank you.” Lestrade looked round at John and Mrs Hudson for a moment, dismissed the blonde man in the chair as a client of sherlock’s, turned and hurried off down the stairs. Sherlock waited until lestrade had definitely left, then suddenly leapt into the air like a madman and clenched his fists triumphantly before twirling around the room happily.  
“Brilliant! Yes! Ah, four serial suicides, and now a note! Oh, it’s Christmas!” Sherlock half yelled. Picking up his scarf and coat he started to put them on while heading for the kitchen, Mrs Hudson gave him one of her best motherly smiles, it always pleased her to see Sherlock happy. He did worry her.  
“Mrs Hudson, I’ll be late. Might need some food. Something cold will do. John, have a cup of tea, make yourself at home. Don’t wait up!”  
“I’m your landlady, dear, not your housekeeper.” she called after him, although they both knew a cold supper would be waiting for him on his return.  
Sherlock disappeared out of the flat, Mrs Hudson turns back to John, who had sat silently through this entire exchange feeling as out of the loop as he did in the lab yesterday and he'd actually been part of that conversation. He was also trying to work out exactly when he had agreed to move in, which now appear to be the common consensus within the flat.  
“Look at him, dashing about! My husband was just the same.”  
John grimaced at her repeated implication that he and Sherlock were an item. It wasn't that John had anything against anyone in the LGBT community, it was just, well.. he was three continents Watson, soldier, rugby player and a true red blooded male. He was also short for a bloke and had had to get in a fair few fights within the army to prove he was just as much, if not more of man’s man than everyone else. And if he was true to himself the implication that he was gay on any level felt like a slur, blame school age bullying for the mental link between sexuality and being weak, defective. It also bothered him that it bothered him so much, that one old lady’s simple mistake should have such an effect upon a grown man. He’d have to come back to that later...  
Pulling himself out of this fascinating line of thought, he realised that Mrs Hudson was still talking.  
“...But you’re more the sitting-down type, I can tell. I’ll make you that cuppa. You rest your leg.” She concluded.  
“Damn my leg!” John shouted. His response was instinctive, gay was one thing but to be treated as a complete invalid just triggered a reaction he couldn't contain. He was immediately apologetic even as Mrs Hudson stepped slightly away from him in shock.  
“Sorry, I’m so sorry. It’s just sometimes this bloody thing …” He bashed his leg with his cane in demonstration and frustration.  
“I understand, dear; I’ve got a hip.” She turned towards the door, with an empathic look upon her face.  
“A cup of tea’d be lovely, thank you.” John said with still a touch of apology.  
“Just this once, dear. I’m not your housekeeper.”  
John got the feeling this was something of a common phrase for her in dealing with sherlock, but it also seemed to be said with an air of humour. john thought he’d test the theory. “Couple of biscuits too, if you’ve got ’em.”  
“Not your housekeeper! Chocolate or plain?”  
John smiled to himself. He picked up the newspaper which Mrs Hudson had put down and looked at an article reporting an apparent suicide. Next to a large photograph of suicide victim was a smaller one showing the man who just visited the flat, it identified him as D.I. Lestrade. Before he could read on or wonder what a D.I would want with his apparently new flatmate, Sherlock’s voice interrupted his thoughts. John looked up to see him standing at the living room door.  
“You’re a doctor. In fact you’re an Army doctor.”  
“Yes..” he wasn't sure where this was going but he felt a strange sense of adrenaline beginning to build. He got stiffly to his feet and turned to face Sherlock as he came back into the room.  
“Any good?”  
“Very good.”  
“Seen a lot of injuries, then; violent deaths. Bit of trouble too, I bet.”  
“Of course, yes. Enough for a lifetime. Far too much.” John's voice laced with quiet sorrow.  
Sherlock took a breath, time for the gamble. “Wanna see some more?”  
“Oh God, yes.” John replied with fervent passion.  
Sherlock spun on his heel with a grin spreading across his face and lead John out of the room and down the stairs. He tried to remember to keep a slower pace for John but things were going so well, john hadn't run off screaming, Mrs Hudson would get to live another day and now he’d been called in on the case he’d been quietly monitoring for months.  
John called out as he followed sherlock down the stairs. “Sorry, Mrs Hudson, I’ll skip the tea. Off out.”  
Mrs Hudson having come out of her ground floor flat, stood near the bottom of the stairs. “Both of you? I thought you’d gone already”  
Sherlock had almost reached the front door but instead turned and walked back towards her. “Impossible suicides? Four of them? I couldn't possibly leave Dr Watson sitting at home when there’s finally something fun going on!” He took her by the shoulders and kissed her quickly on the cheek.  
“Look at you, all happy. It’s not decent.” She couldn't help but smile though, as he turned away and headed for the front door again. That young man had needed someone for a long time and she was starting to think the same about that Watson fellow. She wasn't entirely sure how long they’d known each other for, not long at all from what she could gather. But she had the distinct feeling that they were going to be very good for each other.  
“Who cares about decent? The game, Mrs Hudson, is on!” He shouted back as he walked out onto the street and hailed an approaching black cab. “Taxi!”

The taxi pulled up alongside and he and John got in, Sherlock gave the required location and the car set off for Brixton. They sat in silence for a long time while Sherlock kept his eyes fixed on his smartphone, he could feel John keep stealing glances at him. Sherlock began to panic, he was great with scathing one liners and long explanations but in this awkward silence, he didn't know what to say, small talk (even when chatting with mrs hudson, who usually was the one to carry the conversation) really wasn't really one of Sherlock's stronger attributes and he could tell John wanted to talk.  
Finally Sherlock lowered his phone. “Okay, you’ve got questions.”  
“Yeah, where are we going?” John decided as an impersonal opening question.  
“Crime scene. Next?”  
John decided to go for a more personal line of questioning, especially as they were apparently now living together “Who are you? What do you do?”  
“What do you think?”  
John began to answer slowly, hesitantly: “I’d say private detective …”  
“But?”  
“ ... but the police don’t go to private detectives.”  
“I’m a consulting detective. Only one in the world. I invented the job.” sherlock explained with a hint of pride.  
“Ok. What does that mean?”  
“It means when the police are out of their depth, which is always, they consult me.” The hint of pride now sounding more like smugness.  
“The police don’t consult amateurs.”  
Sherlock throws him a look. Amateur? Whatever he felt for John Watson was feeling very tested indeed at that moment. Amateur, am i John Watson? thought Sherlock. Ok watson, let's play..  
“When I met you for the first time yesterday, I said, “Afghanistan or Iraq?” You looked surprised.”  
“Yes, how did you know?” it had been bugging john since yesterday.  
“I didn’t know, I saw. Your haircut, the way you hold yourself, says military. But your conversation as you entered the room ... “Bit different from my day.” ... said trained at Bart’s, so Army doctor – obvious. Your face is tanned but no tan above the wrists. You’ve been abroad, but not sunbathing. Your limp’s really bad when you walk but you don’t ask for a chair when you stand, like you’ve forgotten about it, so it’s at least partly psychosomatic. That says the original circumstances of the injury were traumatic. Wounded in action, then. Wounded in action, suntan – Afghanistan or Iraq.”  
“You said I had a therapist.” prompted John, not sure if he would get a second chance at information being this forthcoming again.  
“You’ve got a psychosomatic limp – of course you’ve got a therapist. Then there’s your brother.” Sherlock held out his hand, John gave him the phone and he turned it over and looked at it again as he talked. “Your phone. It’s expensive, e-mail enabled, MP3 player, but you’re looking for a flatshare – you wouldn’t waste money on this. It’s a gift, then. Scratches. Not one, many over time. It’s been in the same pocket as keys and coins. The man sitting next to me wouldn’t treat his one luxury item like this, so it’s had a previous owner. Next bit’s easy. You know it already.”  
“The engraving.” John realised.  
Sherlock turns the phone over again exposing the engraving on the back of the phone;  
Harry Watson  
From Clara  
xxx  
“Harry Watson: clearly a family member who’s given you his old phone. Not your father, this is a young man’s gadget. Could be a cousin, but you’re a war hero who can’t find a place to live. Unlikely you’ve got an extended family, certainly not one you’re close to, so brother it is. Now, Clara. Who’s Clara? Three kisses says it’s a romantic attachment. The expense of the phone says wife, not girlfriend. She must have given it to him recently – this model’s only six months old. Marriage in trouble then – six months on he’s just given it away. If she’d left him, he would have kept it. People do – sentiment. But no, he wanted rid of it. He left her. He gave the phone to you: that says he wants you to stay in touch. You’re looking for cheap accommodation, but you’re not going to your brother for help: that says you’ve got problems with him. Maybe you liked his wife; maybe you don’t like his drinking.”  
“How can you possibly know about the drinking?”  
Sherlock smiled. “Shot in the dark. Good one, though. Power connection: tiny little scuff marks around the edge of it. Every night he goes to plug it in to charge but his hands are shaking. You never see those marks on a sober man’s phone; never see a drunk’s without them.” He handed the phone back. “There you go, you see – you were right.”  
Shit, he was heading for confusion again. John was getting a horrible feeling that this would become familiar territory if he were to stay around Sherlock Holmes. “I was right? Right about what?”  
“The police don’t consult amateurs.” He stated, attempting to look distracted by passing London whilst sounding humorous and slightly flippant. There was silence however, so sherlock continued looking out of the side window, biting his lip nervously while he awaited John’s reaction.  
“That ... was amazing.” John sounded slightly shocked.  
Sherlock looked around slowly, genuinely stunned into silence for about 5 seconds. Which was the longest time Sherlock had ever been stunned or silent about anything. “Do you think so?”  
“Of course it was. It was extraordinary; it was quite extraordinary.” How could anyone see it as anything but, thought john and yet the other man had seemed surprised by his reaction.  
That’s not what people normally say. Sherlock stated honestly and John saw the mask of indifference slip slightly from sherlock’s face.  
“What do people normally say?”  
“Piss off!” Sherlock smirked briefly at John, who grinned and turned away to look out of the window as the journey continued with both of them chuckling lightly. 

The cab arrived at Lauriston Gardens, Sherlock and John got out and walk towards the police tape strung across the road.  
“Did I get anything wrong?” he would have never normally asked and if he did get anything wrong, which was rarely, people never seemed to need prompting to tell him. Sherlock put this down to people having a problem with feeling inferior and stupid around him, which definitely wasn’t his fault.  
“Harry and me don’t get on, never have. Clara and Harry split up three months ago and they’re getting a divorce; and Harry is a drinker….”  
Sherlock looked impressed with himself. “Spot on, then. I didn’t expect to be right about everything.”  
Time to drop the H bomb, thought John “...And Harry’s short for Harriet.”  
Sherlock stopped dead in his tracks. “Harry’s your sister?” he asked, then through gritted teeth. “Sister! There’s always something.” he concluded exasperatedly and started to walk again  
“Look, what exactly am I supposed to be doing here?” asked John.  
Sherlock ignored the question as they approached the police tape where they were met by Sergeant Donovan, a tall mixed race women with a face that looked as though there was a bad smell under her nose that she could never escape and a chip on her shoulder so big it deserved its own police badge.  
“Hello, freak.” Donovan opened with her usual warm welcome.  
Sherlock ignored the taunt as he always did. “I’m here to see Detective Inspector Lestrade.”  
“Why?”  
oh good, Anderson must have the brain cell today. “I was invited.”  
“Why?”  
Sherlock sighed and adjusted his speech to that of one talking to a slightly confused four year old. “I think he wants me to take a look.”  
“Well, you know what I think, don’t you?”  
Sherlock had grown tired of this pointless exchange and lifted the tape, ducking underneath it. “ Always, Sally.” and it never required much effort either, he thought to himself. Then purely for his own pleasure he breathed in through his nose and added, “I even know you didn’t make it home last night.”  
“I don’t …” She then clocked John. following sherlock through the police tape. “Er, who’s this?”  
“Colleague of mine, Doctor Watson.”  
He turned to John. “Doctor Watson, Sergeant Sally Donovan. Amazingly not an idiot, although currently doing her damndest to prove otherwise.”  
Donavon ignored the last comment, to shock by the revelation that someone was choosing to be be in sherlock's company, she half wondered whether she should check the blonde man to see if he’d drugged or was trying to blink out an S.O.S. “A colleague? How do you get a colleague?!” She turned to look at John. Nope, no desperate signalling. “What, did he follow you home?”  
John was beginning to grow uncomfortable “Would it be better if I just waited and …”  
“No.” Sherlock lifted the tape for him and as John walked under, Donovan lifted a radio to her mouth.  
“Freak’s here. Bringing him in.” She lead them towards the house. Sherlock looked all around the area and at the ground as they approached. As they reached the house, an idiot dressed in a coverall comes out.  
“Ah, Anderson. Here we are again.”  
Anderson looks at him with distaste. “It’s a crime scene. I don’t want it contaminated. Are we clear on that?”  
Sherlock took in another deep breath through his nose “Quite clear. And is your wife away for long?”  
“Oh, don’t pretend you worked that out. Somebody told you that…”  
“Your deodorant told me that.”  
“..My deodorant?”  
Sherlock smirked. “It’s for men.”  
“Well, of course it’s for men! I’m wearing it!”  
“So’s Sergeant Donovan.” Anderson looked round in shock at Donovan before turning back and pointing at him angrily “Now look: whatever you’re trying to imply …”  
Sherlock was enjoying himself now. “I’m not implying anything.” He headed past Donovan towards the front door. “I’m sure Sally came round for a nice little chat, and just happened to stay over. And in her role as carer to the terminally stupid I assume she scrubbed your floors at the same time, going by the state of her knees that is.”  
Anderson and Donovan stared at him in horror. He smiled satisfied for now with the cruel but ever so easy game of idiot-baiting and went into the house. John walked past Donovan, briefly but pointedly looking down to her knees. Matters of intelligence aside, John had heard enough to decide that this was not a woman who should be working with people on any representative level and that the police force would probably be wise to hide her away in a back office as soon possible should they wish to maintain any form of positive public image........

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed reading this, its my first attempt submitting a story. Any comments will be greatly appreciated.


End file.
